


to even space

by vaec (aosc)



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-02-28 05:03:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2719676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/pseuds/vaec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is this: get up, co-run the largest corporation in Hyrule, frequently dine with the sister of your most major business rival, then get drunk on Thursdays, and live a miserable love life. Rinse, recycle, repeat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. wining, dining, shotting

**Author's Note:**

> this is my most cherished, formerly abandoned zelda WIP, with the longest summary of: _life is only so much: get up, co-run the largest corporation in hyrule, re-schedule meetings with zant because he never wants anything, try not to lead your secretary on, go straight to telma's without passing go or the STAR tent while neither collecting cats nor 200 rupies, and try not to let anybody drink you under the table because you have to be presentable tomorrow again to do this, well, again. of course, somebody has to go screw this up sooner or later. no, not_ you _, zant._
> 
> it's a link/sheik office AU. it's ridiculous, and my baby, and this time around i'm actually aiming for its completion. so. there's that.

* * *

 

"You see, one of these days I  _am_  going to request a transfer to the offices in Ordon, and there will be absolutely  _nothing_  you can do to stop it from happening," Link mutters, poking through the excel arcs with a ballpoint pen, skimming through the finer points and notes at the bottom of the page spread across his desk. "What I don't understand -- with due respect, of course, is why _I_ am getting faxed the personell management's pocket notes for their next basement workshop seminar."

 

Ilia cocks a finely shaped eyebrow. "Because in an act of you displaying your personality -- being you, really, it occasionally happens -- you decided to take pity on Colin and his troubles with the faxes in the main copying room, and somehow he ended up sending them to you as a token of his appreciation?"

 

Link nods because, he supposes, it does sound like a reasonable explanation. At least at this hour of the day, which is to say, not fully day. Not that he remembers this having taken place at any point, but he will always take Ilia's word bare, with his hands tied to a post, in a jailed off cellar. He wills himself to not look at the time, it'll make him revert into zombie. "Right, fine, do I have any real appointments to cover today?"

 

Ilia, fantastic secretary, friend, mother, as she is, hides a smile stretching the corner of her mouth behind a long sleeved poplin blouse. "Yes, you do, and you would know that even if you hadn't had me around, if you ever bothered to check your calendar."

 

Link smiles prettily, batting his eyelashes. "But then I wouldn't need use any of your services, would I? We couldn't have that."

 

He would wince because Ilia's breath catches and he knows what it means when her breath catches just like that and he avoids her eyes and counts very casually to ten beneath his breath and thought. It's horrible to lead friends on, especially close friends and Ilia is honestly his closest friend. Let's be honest, she could sabotage his entire life (his calendar) with a few rewrites, and as the speech goes:  _keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer_. Would you keep Ilia the closest, then? He wonders why he thinks of this but anything for Ilia breathing normally in his close proximity. She has compromising photos. And a very sharp tongue.

 

"Anyway," Ilia clears her throat, "There's a phone conference in twenty minutes about the funds for the theology research institute in Snowpeak, lunch was free but Midna dropped an email so you will meet outside at half past eleven -- " she eyes Link warily and he is up, honestly. " -- And that is all your brain will process at this hour," she concludes. With added closure.

 

"Phone, lunch. It all seems very simple."

 

"It would suit you then," Ilia says, while fingering the hem of her eggshell blouse and audibly ignoring Link with the ease of old time acquaintances. He snorts. "You love me."

 

Ilia rolls her eyes, but then it is affectionate, the flutter of her dark lashes fanning against her cheek in a way he loves, platonically, and Link quirks a smile at her and arranges the excel documents as chronologically as possible and snaps a manila folder around them and puts them in the light bend of her outstretched fingers. "This gift was appreciated, though perhaps not as well received as its thought, at this hour in the morning. You may have it back."

 

"Smooth talker," she tuts.

 

"That's Smooth Criminal to you, and I am most smooth when the need arises."

 

Ilia rolls her eyes once more, and Link should really start to count the amount of times that she does it in a day -- she does it in the tens, at least, and maybe he could get the entirety of the office in on this? Because let's face it, no matter the luxurious views from the wide expanses of panorama windows Link's floor has access to, cubicle work is all dull and no play, and it will never, ever, be fun in practice.

 

Ilia's got red soled stilettos, which doesn't really suit the persona Ilia that Link has always known, and they click sharp and out of sync with each other when she sticks her head through the yawn of his door again. "Zant has requested a meeting with the president at four, by the way."

 

Link leans back into the chair and massages his temples and blinks heftily to rid himself of all the tiredness all the time all day. This is usually his most exciting part of the day, no further introductions necessary  -- Zant. CEO of rival company Twilight Inc who, despite having been smashed in court thrice and is now refused an access permit to any part of their office buildings in any part of the country, will not give up his quest in buying into the business.

 

It's getting tiring though, hardly entertaining enough to maintain its spark when done for the umpteenth time in not very long at all.

 

"Remind me before he does this afternoon?" Link asks, and reclines heavily into his chair. Ilia wears a smirk well, as she shrugs, tiny shoulders, and it may indicate yay or it might indicate nay. Link wants to sleep, _desperately_ , it is all that he really wants.

 

* * *

 

Midna links their arms and trots in pumps down the alley from Hyrule Enterprises while Link is in tow and has trouble keeping up with her. He's not entirely sure how she does it, but, superwoman as she is, it's surely a birthright. She doesn't pay him much mind, brushing off his stilting with a patronizing hum, and sets off about her morning thus far. It involves the planning of a kickoff on Outset Island of the Great Sea, a few nervy interns ("Certainly not made better by your personality," Link very helpfully adds, which earns him a huff and a sharp elbow in the ribs, oh the shock) and a copying machine coupling with the Espresso maker.

 

"You know your brother has r _equested a meeting,_  with _the president_ , today  _again_ , at four PM,  _again_?"

 

Midna sighs and slows her gallop and manages to frown at least vaguely concerned. She is the typical sister. "I suppose you'll just have to re-schedule," she says, but then looks at Link and quirks an eyebrow, morphing instantaneously from good natured annoyed to rather lewd. "Unless this is for the _other_ president? Four, make it six, and dinner for two?"

 

Link grimaces. "Would you please just never, again?"

 

Midna shrugs, and pulls at his sleeve, walking briskly.

 

The Castle Town Café Bar does make for an apt lunch date, Link supposes, as Midna arranges for their usual secluded table atop the descending terrace. The waiters are familiar with their faces, though it is a surprise to Link if they aren't recognized nearly everywhere they go, and they get a vaguely familiar petite waitress who casually cocks her hip against their table and looks under mascara thick eyelashes at Link, red curls spilling over her white shirt. Midna sighs, because even as they've been through the  _hook up that never happened_  (it honestly didn't), she is often the one to save Link from these situations. Or the one to place him in them, from time to time. But two can tango.

 

"The fair lady'll have the Hyrule Bass with the salad as a side, and mineral wat -- "

 

"A glass of your Ordona white, please. He, too, will have it, and the chicken. Your bartender should know which one if you ask him." Midna's smile rides up the canines sharp on each side of her jaw, and the waitress hurriedly scribbles down their order and retreats to the kitchens. Midna reclines languidly, comfortably, but does issue Link a tut and a circular wave of her index finger. "Water, really?"

 

"We're going to Telma's tonight anyway, what's the point?"

 

She chuckles. "That is the point then, isn't it?"

 

"No," Link replies, "The points is you're just looking for, and grabbing, any excuse available for your rapid ascending into alcoholism."

 

" _R_ _apid ascending_? Where did you learn such fancy expressions? And I'm hardly _ascending_ ," she makes exaggerated aerial quotation marks, "The fair lady looks for no excuses to disregard her behavior. She simply loves the wines of Ordona."

 

Link snorts, but does stutter the body of his wine glass to hers after they are poured, inciting low chimes, and sips thoughtfully whilst studying the jostling atmosphere of Castle Town Square directly beneath their feet.

 

"I've been thinking," Midna says, and raises a hand once more, to point at him, " _You,_ should get out more."

 

He retracts into the tall back of his seat. "What?"

 

"I know you hear me well enough," she leans forward and flicks the air beside his ear, "What I just said; I mean it."

 

"Yes, because I have the time, co-running the largest corporation in the country," Link quips, rather than silencing and looking as thrown off as he is feeling by the sudden change of topic, to that subject which, smartly, never comes up. Probably because discussing Link's dating quota is as sad as watching Zant's attempts at dressing in accordance to a trend report. It is horrifying, terrible, all things you do not need in your life.

 

"That's the worst excuse you could come up with and hide behind, Link. You work normal office hours!"

 

Link blinks, steadying his hands before him as to shield off Midna's frown. "Well," he says. Smooth. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Why would I  _want_  to go out more, then?"

 

She deadpans. "Because you're an unwilling social hermit who haven't seen the light of intimate company in months? I know you're not the guy who does a casual on a Wednesday because he needs to get off, but dining with anyone but me once in a while really wouldn't hurt. Not that there is anything particularly wrong with me -- " She smirks, sharp, and Link rolls his eyes with affection, before the mood grows somber. Perfect, as if he needed this.

 

"It's not like there are many options where I hang," he mumbles. Midna chokes down a laugh then, and resorts to sympathizing with his lost cause instead of heaving the proverbial bucket of salt into the not so proverbial wound. "Fine, I guess you won't score much at Telma's. Everyone's like a brother, or a sister. Still though, I should take you to our next large dinner, introduce you to a few friends -- someone's bound to know someone else, and so on..."

 

Link lets her trail off, into the depths of her own thoughts, and plan, because even though you might not necessarily agree with her, it's more often than not that Midna makes an effort for a sentiment largely helpful, and genuine. Her methods shan't be mentioned, though. When their food arrives, she tracks off the path they were going anyway, lodged in the back of her mind, and Link can breathe temporarily easy once more under his suit jacket.

 

* * *

 

At ten to four he knocks thrice on Zelda's glass paned office door. His dear sister, not so dear boss, is immaculately dressed in wide slacks and an A-line jacket, and seats neatly crosslegged behind her desk, her spine curved into the open panorama of the sky outside. She doesn't look up immediately, but motions for him to shut the door if he is to come in.

 

"Yes?" Zelda inquires after some time, finishing off her grand Z on the dotted signature line of a thick of documents.

 

"Should I tell Zant to fuck off, or to fuck someone else?" Link asks.

 

She raises an eyebrow. "The difference being?"

 

"Well, fucking off is like, sending a remotely courteous, signed letter reminding him of the court order. Fucking someone else, preferably a distant family member, is like, sending a renewal of it, and having it tattooed onto his forehead."

 

Zelda bares a slip of white teeth in a edged smile, and Link thinks that on occasion, she manages to look rather intimidating. "Fuck off then, and warn him of the -- less courteous option."

 

"M'lady," he says, bowing with the utmost of irony, but beneath bangs he flashes her a wide smile. Zelda shakes her head. "Would that be all, brother dearest?" She asks.

 

"For now, fairest sister," he says, and turns and walks out, aiming to shut the door halfway until he remembers, with a hand still on the doorknob. "By the way -- don't wait for me in the board of directors meeting tomorrow morning. Traffic -- it could jam."

 

She waves him out of her office. He emails Midna and Ilia.

 

* * *

 

 **recipient** : midna.t@twili.inc  
 **sender** : link.c@hyrule.ent  
 **subject** : fuck off zant

sincerely  
zelda

ps. midna, 6.30 at telma's?

pps. zant, next time it's fuck someone else

ppps. zant, sincerely zelda

pppps. midna, do show this to zant. though erase our bar plans. i am  _not_  feeling the whole committing murder or/and suicide thing tonight. ty

**This message was sent from my yPhone**

 

 **recipient** : ilia.s@hyrule.ent  
 **sender** : link.c@hyrule.net  
 **subject** : fuck off zant

you know what this means, so please get it done tonight?  
i know you will b/c you're an angel like that

ps. telma's if you're feeling it

pps. if you're there prior to 6.30 tell auru that every short, male, ginger fashion disaster is forbidden entrance to the bar. he has drugs on his person, or something. idk if midna will honor my request of not bringing him along

**This message was sent from my yPhone**

 

* * *

 

He walks the short distance home, because his and Zelda's wall-to-wall flats are a mere a block further off the grounds of the main offices, strictly for convenience. Sometimes it's stressing, a pulse beneath his ribs, in his stomach, that he can never get rid of. The prodding feeling as though he won't ever escape work is sometimes there, the back of his brain occupied, constant. But mostly it's convenient, he will give his sister that.

 

Link doesn't own a car, opting to walk, or for communal transportation, but will admit that he issues one of the company whenever the need arises. It does please the environmentalists and the health department gives him an extra gold star for it, so he does alright, and won't act on the simpering desire to buy a lightning quick sports model with a V12 engine and carbon body just because.

 

He walks the three stairs up to his complex, twists the key in the lock, and flips the hallway switch on to be awash with soft light when he steps inside. He hangs the coat up in the wardrobe and picks out a khaki green leather jacket instead. Switches slacks and pressed shirt and suit jacket for chinos and a simple white t-shirt. Steps into the shower for five minutes and listens to the beat of the water in his ears and over his scalp, numbing, rinsing. He doesn't bother with his hair and steps into old and beaten sneakers, the triangle logo on the back shifting in white and muddy grey.

 

 _Showtime_ , he thinks, even if it's really not, and he's just meeting the usual crowd at the usual bar for the usual beer. It makes him issue a fond smile, because if Link asks his own opinion in it -- then that's absolutely fine.

 

* * *

 

Telma's is abnormally crowded, Link notes, when he steps through the entrance. The large premise hooded and shadowed, tabletop bar shining with polish, but still jacked and scarred. The speakers filter soft pop, and the sports section is bristling with the husk of ale and expectation. Football night. Of course it is, and Link returns a hasty wave to Rusl, who's already seated at the back with a tall flask in hand. His hair is jagged at the tips and he's wearing a white washed and yellow stained Ordon Goats jersey, a white smile on his weathered features.

 

"Heya Link, how's it?" Rusl smiles and motions to an empty seat on his right.

 

"Going to have to decline, not my team tonight. And it's all good here." Link shrugs good naturedly, whilst Rusl peers at him through thin eyes. "Goddesses knows I tried with you, but you just ain't having none of our goats, huh." He shakes his head, "Well, no matter. I take it you're waiting for Midna?"'

 

Link nods. "Yeah."

 

Rusl coughs a laugh. "Well, you kids have a good one," he says.

 

"You too, Rusl. Thanks."

 

Midna clocks in about ten minutes later, having only changed out of one pencil skirt for the comfort (or, what does Link know, really), of another. She looks windswept and Link cocks an eyebrow curiously. She waves in his face. "No, I won't spill."

 

He eyes her dubiously. Because she will spill. "You so will."

 

She huffs. "Alright, fine," she says. But the smile on her face tells stories void of annoyance. "If you buy me a drink."

 

Link is always. "Am I not always?"

 

"Yes, and _that,_ dear, is why we are such close friends." She flutters bright eyelashes at him.

 

"Yeah, sure, or because your business corporate partner left you in a, unbeknownst to you, collapsing deal and I, as the third party, offered my assistance and a much better way out. But hey, let's get you that drink and forget all about work."

 

"I wonder if being a douche is only seen as an attractive quality in men -- to men, since I just get an overwhelming urge to punch your teeth out. But, then I remind myself of the fact that you haven't scored a lay with that tongue in four months and counting, so I've come to doubt it."

 

Link sighs, ignores the pun with the power of the sun, because one day the apocalypse will reign upon them and only then will Midna stop being a hypocrite, seeing as she is just as bad herself, and Link will  _laugh_. But only then. Until then, he will suffer and forever hold his peace. "How about that drink?" He says, and places two fingers in the concave of her back, guidingher towards the bar. "How about shutting up for a minute? How about not talking again, _ever_?"

 

She laughs, and says, "Then you won't find out what it was I was about to tell you."

 

She's right. Link wants to flip her off, but he's the perfect gentleman in front of Telma, always, and that is the way it's going to stay. The aforementioned busty woman moves from the liquor racks to the front of the bar, giving them a bright smile of molten gold and diamonds.

 

"Link, Midna, how nice to see y'all around these parts of town again! The usual's what it'll be, I take it?" She doesn't wait for a response before beginning to pluck with glasses and flasks, shakers and the ale tap.

 

The usual, dubbed, honored, never forgotten, is a Hyrulian draft for Link, and a dry Kokiritini for Midna. Link isn't usually petty with liquor and food alike, but that concoction is a shocking green and simply, positively  _vile,_ and he will never, even under the threat of death to a loved one, drink one again. It's as if made to be green and disgusting for the sake of spiting Link. He grimaces when they get their drinks, over the rim of his glass. Midna smirks.

 

Telma, often more the second mother to Link, makes them spill everything about the offices and what's gone down during the past week. Midna eagerly changes between sipping her drink and telling one outrageous story after another. Link sits back and enjoys, as he usually does. At some point at the beginning of their friendship, he'd found it rather hard to believe any of it, claiming it bullshit, but, as it is, post having witnessed Zant play his twisted D/S fantasies out in the office and firing people left and right, not to mention what he also does to them at beforehand --well, let's leave it at that Link has seen it all and some more. The therapy is costly, but necessary.

 

" -- And so I was laughing in his face, because  _he_  was _all_ bullshit, and his excuse for extending our meeting was a load of shit," she pauses and takes a nimble bite out of her olive, "And then we agreed on a fifth date. And it's just -- great,  _all_  of it." She finishes and then she laughs in a way Link hasn't quite seen her do in some time, displaying the moving column of her throat and the shadow of a blush on the planes of her cheeks. He softens, and the quip spilling from the tip of his tongue disperses into nothing.

 

"That's my girl!" Telma exclaims, and stretches across the bar to fold Midna's fingers up in the cage of her own larger palm. "I'm so happy for you, honey!"

 

"I think I actually deserve a non-ironic toast for once," Midna says, ducking beneath her fringe, hiding behind her smile.

 

Link snorts. "Don't be such a light weight." he turns to Telma, "This is going to be all shots."

 

The bartender salutes him. "Comin' right up, honey. But they best be going the other way for you two."

 

This is Link's evening. A Thursday night. And he is absolutely fine with that. Maybe not the part about Rusl roaring along to the first Goats goal of the night, but he figures he'll live. Or at least become so wasted on he won't remember the outcome of the game. And then he'll have to get up in the morning. But that part comes later. Really.

 

* * *

 


	2. rinsing, recycling, dancing

* * *

  

Link does take his responsibilities as co-executive of the company _very_ seriously. He'd go as far as out on a limb and say that Hyrule Enterprises holds his full attention on a constant twenty four hour a day cycle. Every minute, like, not a second amiss. This isn't so much of an exaggeration as it's, well, it's almost the full scope of truth. He's actually quite proud of his nearly faultless track record as a senior VP; he is always on time, he partakes in every shareholders meeting, he works dedicatedly and hard, and he sees to that nothing he does, on the occasion where it ends badly, gets in the press. And not because of censure, mind you.

 

He wakes up on top of the sheets, jeans twisted halfway around his thighs, shirt around his neck, hair wet and sticking to his forehead. There'll be no mentioning the state of his mouth, and Goddesses almighty, did he actually  _die_ last night? Right now, Link is pretty sure of that he did. He remembers vaguely a disembodied mass of voices, a body of crowd moving about above his head, worried, and yep, that must be it. He must've done something irreversibly stupid last night, and gone and gotten himself semi-beheaded. And how easy it must be, severing thick chords of flesh, blood, of only grazing the vertebrae where it connects the spine to the skull.

 

He's going to be violently sick. Who has these thoughts when you're so hungover coherent thought is not even on the menu? He cracks an eye open, barely, a sliver of dim light coming into slow focus.

 

Link just knows he's missed the morning's board meeting.

 

"Fucking -  _shit_." Because no, no no _no_ , he was all talk yesterday, of course he wouldn't miss something as vital as a board of directors meeting. What is he, irresponsible? And yes, he might as well tattoo that in bright color onto his forehead. _Moron_.

 

He tries to stumble up, and ends up slipping down the sheets, tumble into the wall headfirst. Only then, can he fumble a few fingers upwards, towards the dimmer, and slap the lights on after one two three gulps of air. His knees ache, weak where he stumbles to a stand, his stomach roils uncomfortably. _When_  did he install spotlights this unnecessarily bright? They're usually quite lovely, if he trusts his memory, but right now they're _blinding_.

 

He staggers over to the bed once more, running fingers over the headboard and down through the air, catching on the bedside table. It's all there. At least he is in his own apartment.

 

Link swallows two aspirin on the go and showers leaning heavily on the tiled wall. It's the Kokiritini - he can't remember Midna finishing her third, and around there is where his memory starts to fade, crackle around the edges like static. He massages his temples gingerly, and towels off slowly, brushes his teeth hard and fast and twice.

 

Coffee. _Coffee_. It isn't Link's favorite beverage, but after a blackout night? The absolute best cure there is. He empties a cup quickly, the tip of his tongue scalding, but he doesn't care. He sinks down into the counter of the kitchen island, lets it dig into the low of his back, and breathes. He's almost afraid to check his phone, splayed, along with his keyring, thankfully intact, on the tabletop. Then he figures he probably deserves what's going to be on it, though. It doesn't make it any less horrifying to swipe his thumb over the lock screen.

 

Knock, snap, twist, _bang_. A clicking noise follows suit. Link tenses, though it takes him a good few seconds to figure the noises out, picking them apart in the dusty recesses of his brain that remain intact, brain cells functioning, multiplying.

 

It's his door. The motion of knock, unlock, and kicked open to swing on its hinges. He winces, because there are only so many people in this world with a key to his apartment - himself, and his sister. On the other hand, he could've just as well have given away his key to some lucky, or unlucky, contestant, following last night. But there's only one contestant who sounds exactly like that.

 

And Zelda is very much Zelda, where she appears in the mouth of the door, and the clicks are her heels, menacing in a way only female clothing accessories can be to the male specimen. She assesses him critically. "You make quite the sight," she notes coolly.

 

"S'ppose someone has to," Link mutters, fingering the ornate ear of his mug. It's a very interesting piece of porcelain.

 

"I do understand the need to drink yourself into a stupor on a Thursday evening, honestly Link, I do."

 

He looks up at her, squinting in the bright light filtering through the large windows, but Zelda smiles, holding none to him in her expression. "Your absence was, of course, frowned upon, but the board let it be. I had everything before me anyhow. I told them you were out sick - not exactly a lie, it would seem."

 

She shrugs her jacket off and hangs it to slouch over the back of a chair, a long coat with a marked waist and thin lapels. She puts her keys plain on the table. Link wants to say,  _oh, by all means, do feel free to make yourself comfortable and at home_ , but figures he'll do wisely in keeping his mouth shut. Zelda's lips thin around her smile as though she agrees, seeing him snap his mouth shut.

 

"I'm hardly going to model my work ethics after the board's wishes, though," Link protests after some time, in-between mouthfuls of the coffee Zelda has poured him yet another cup of. By the end of the day he's going to be lapping the Castle Town Marathon, twice.

 

Zelda raises an eyebrow. "Well, not after your drinking habits, I hope."

 

"What habits?" Link mutters, only a little on the defense.

 

"The erratical ones," replies Zelda, and zips her calfskin boots down at the ankle.

 

She proceeds to invade Link's kitchen, because she is a very balanced person, and thus derives great pleasure from cooking him scrambled eggs in between chucking scathing remarks around as if they're entirely free of charge for everyone in her immediate vicinity. Zelda is hardly the poster woman of zen; workaholic extraordinaire, social phenomena, savior of the modern world, et cetera. But then she isn't prone to a particularly short temper either, and Link thinks this is what makes her the perfect CEO. She rules with a firm hand, but she isn't unnecessarily cruel.

 

"I hope Midna is worse off than me. She should be," Link says, and drops unfashionably down onto a stool opposite Zelda at the kitchen island, where she's put food on two platters. He digs in, merciless, and thinks that he won't reject his brotherly love for her ever again.

 

Zelda clears her throat, and a small smile forms in her mouth. "I heard you are going out tonight, actually. Which probably means she partook in some necessities last night, unlike you. Water, aspirin, a _shower_."

 

Link slowly lets his fork off on his plate, feeling dread curl ice cold and thick in his stomach. In fact, there have been few occasions on when his stomach has previously dropped so quickly. "Great," he stammers, only just refraining from rubbing his temples obstinately. "That's - that's fantastic. She wants to play matchmaker today, out of all the days of this month."

 

He would like to think he sounds as unperturbed as he mentally makes it sound. Zelda's sudden scrunched face of horrifyingly pure, unadulterated glee, does nothing for  _that_. Everything sounds better in the face of only yourself. Everything.

 

Link groans. "I will write Thursdays off the calendar."

 

* * *

 

"It's bordering on ridiculous, your excitement over this," mutters Link, slouching, his shoulders curled in on himself in despair opposite Midna, who looks far too smug, not to mention healthy, non-dying, and absolutely not plagued with the hangover from _H_ _ell_ , from where she is poised at the end of Link's leather couch with a nimble cross of her legs. She tuts at him.

 

"Your positive outlook on things makes my teeth ache; get a hold of yourself before someone you don't know feels they might actually have a shot at you tonight."

 

Link glares. "I have you, don't I? That's enough," he mutters.

 

"Ah, yeah." She says, ignoring the last remark, and drums her nails in patterns on the curve of her wine glass. "You have me because I pity you."

 

Link swipes gently after her shoulder. She swivels to the side, glass aloft, "Oi, watch the wine!"

 

"Oh, right, do whatever you want to the poor, white carpet. But don't you dare spill the wine." He rolls his eyes, clutching at his chest in a bout of terrible ache, horrible fiend as she is. Midna raises an immaculately shaped eyebrow, but Link sees the smile badly concealed in the curve of her lips. "It is a fine one, though. You won't want to waste it," she points out.

 

Link does agree, it is very fine. The tension has partially bled from his posture, and it leaves him with a warm stomach and sinking into the soft leather. They sit in silence for a while, Midna on her phone, clutched in one palm, while she uses one free finger from where she's holding her glass to swipe. Link eyes the ticks and turns of her impatience, knowing that the farther they progress into a silent momentum, she will become akin to a metal spring, coiled and waiting.

 

So he expects it, when she rises abruptly, letting the wine glass off onto the coffee table.

 

"C'mon," Midna says, "Wouldn't want to be late."

 

And off they do go. Link supposes he's got to somewhat appreciate her for the fact that small talk, fine champagne and equally fine food is on the to-do list for the evening, and not an actual date. It's not that he doesn't want to date, per se, he thinks as they take the elevator down the apartment block. It's that he needs to be the one to choose a date, and not let his sister, or his best friend, intervene.

 

The streets are wet with rain, and they walk the curved road down to the turnabout parking spaces, and past the neat lines of cars, and down to the main boulevard that stretches thick and straight through Castle Town.

 

"So what is this event, exactly?" Link asks. "I've not got it noted in my calendar."

 

"Nothing grand." Midna smoothes a hand over the hem of her A-line coat, checking for irregularities in the fabric. "It's a dinner, actually. Well, not precisely only a dinner, there might be an element of dance to it, and there'll be a few speeches. There usually is, anyway. It's the quarterly fundraiser dinner for the Ocean Welfare Fund."

 

"You do know how to dredge up events out of your schedule that make me feel all fuzzy on the inside," Link mutters, and buttons his blazer against the mild bite of chill.

 

Midna slips her arm into the crook of his elbow. "It's for a good cause," she says, and Link agrees with an inclination of his head. Fine, Hyrule Enterprises contribute to the cause as well, but he's himself never been to one of their galas, Zelda is the queen socialite out of the two of them.

 

"And a few of my colleagues are hosting the afterparty at the _Mine_ later," Midna filters through his thoughts, suspiciously innocent. _S_ _he_ would.

 

"Right," Link sighs. "I'd really rather bury myself in rapports about oil fundings in the West. I don't understand how you do it."

 

Midna snorts. "Please, don't insult me. It comes with the job, it's in the neat scripture at the bottom of the contract page." She pats his arm. "But alas, no time to argue; here we are."

 

The elegant premises of the Palace tower when they turn the corner of 51st Emerald, beige stone decked out in graphite and green marble, a gold plated inscription high on its front signing with flourish _The_   _Palace Saloons_. Link is no stranger to it, the company is quite fond of using The Palace as a gala and conference spot whenever they are hosted in-town. The winged, five storey building is outfitted with a hotel floor, the first floor saloon with a generous performance stage, two separate restaurants, a conference floor, and a upper floor sky bar.

 

Tonight, the entrance is populated by couples and lesser groups issuing small talk whilst two inconspicuously dressed guards search their bags and coats by the ornate, arching doors.

 

" _Nothing special?_ " Link snarks.

 

Midna rolls her eyes. "Manners," she warns. "I'll introduce you to a bunch of people, and you can even talk some business if you feel you're out on the deep waters of _mingling_. It'll be good for you."

 

"I'll be awkward, and drink all of the champagne. Understood."

 

Midna pats his forearm with sympathy, but the smirk in the corner of her mouth is satisfactory. "There there," she offers, before they, too, are briefly examined, and cleared to enter. Midna lingers by one of the guards, chatting smiling and gesturing in a way that suggests they're familiar with each other. Link is hardly surprised, Midna knows people left and right, up and down, and also your grandmother.

 

"Someone who's had the pleasure of escorting you out on a previous occasion?" He quips, when she catches up to him in a flurry of plaited skirts and loose hair.

 

"Wouldn't you like to know," Midna replies. "But no, not really. I know him from your sister, actually. He's coming out with us later."

 

"You just said _us_ , as in we, as in _also I_ ," Link says.

 

"I did," Midna replies, offering up no room for protests. She laces her fingers upon his arm, and leads him up a carpeted set of arching stairs, to the saloons.

 

The insides are milky, soothingly lit with grand chandeliers glittering, lights playing. Waiters and waitresses go about balancing champagne on silver trays, and there are a few already set tables placed on a sparse distance to the main stage in the center of the room, white cushioned chairs, monogrammed tablecloths, sculptural vases with lilies and artful twigs from silver oak in twisted bunches. They linger in the doorway before Midna seems to zoom in on a group she recognizes, and tugs him along.

 

It's a group of four, three women and a younger man. Red haired, tan, Link notes the silk details on their dresses, and on the man's tuxedo jacket. Gerudo. Link smiles with courtesy when Midna introduces them around. Midna, who is a third Gerudo, is the closest he usually comes to these people. She's wearing a black cocktail dress, a thick silver necklace and matching cuffs around her wrists. Link is wearing a tailored tux and a broad tie. Of course, it wouldn't be complete without the hand embroidered Hyrule Enterprises logo on the breast pocket. Zelda, bless her soul and subtle marketing infusions, he thinks.

 

"Acquintances through work?" he asks the tallest woman in the group, who'd been introduced as Nabooru, striking in a way he defines as 'quite possibly terrifying when/if rubbed the wrong way'.

 

She smiles slightly. "Yes, since long," she says, thickly accented. "You must be Link. I do not believe we have met despite, ah, connections."

 

"No, I wouldn't say so, miss. A shame, but Gerudo remains somewhat unexplored to me as of yet."

 

Her smile grows. "That is a shame indeed, it is spectacular in its own way."

 

"As is most of the country, in its own way certainly," he says, and she inclines her head in agreement. Midna elbows him discreetly in the side, probably a casual nudge to the party, but that hurt, and he turns to her. She's animatedly been talking to the two other women, identical save for a rich orange and a cool blue silk dress respectively. Koume, and Kotake, he remembers, he'd pressed courtesy lips to both their hands.

 

"What you are saying, is that this young man is the CEO of Hyrule Enterprises?" Koume says.

 

"Unfortunately," Link quips, before he gets the feeling that perhaps it wasn't the right thing to say. And it isn't like he has finished his first glass of champagne yet. Where is his international spidey sense of manners when he needs it. Because the women equally size him up, saying no more. Midna, who'd stiffened by his side, gradually relaxes when nothing further happens.

 

Nabooru quirks an eyebrow at him, but simply says, "do not mind them." She appears amused, if anything.

 

"Right," he nods, and clears his throat. "By the way - " he begins, but is broken off when the gathered crowd stirs to the chiming of a fork against a glass. The younger man who'd been with the Gerudo women is nowhere to be seen. Nabooru seems to pay it no mind, as she turns to the center stage.

 

The petite woman stepping out before a large projection of the evening's chronological events, intricately designed, is, surprisingly, Saria. Her pale hair is plaited drooping over her shoulder, down onto her white shirt, contrasting to her slacks. She speaks briefly of the programme, introducing the cause, the main donors - and the dinner sponsor, to Midna's obvious delight - and steps off to a smatter of applause. As she goes off the stage, she waves toward them, smile stretching her face wide. Midna waves back.

 

Link clears his throat. "Right, I think we'll have to be excused. Food, and all, yes?" he says, not really adamant to discontinue talking to Nabooru, who'd come off as quite intriguing, but eager to escape the conformity of socializing - and, well, say hi to Saria given that they've had exactly minus correspondence in the past years. Nabooru nods.

 

"It was a pleasure," she says.

 

"Likewise, when I have the time Gerudo sounds like an exciting experience," Link says. She inclines her head. Midna exchanges kisses and well wishes with the three Gerudo women. Koume and Kotame's eyes are hard on their backs when they detach themselves from their small half crescent.

 

"I know that the Gerudo prefer a woman's company, but I have to say, those twins didn't take well to me _breathing_ ," Link says as soon as they're out of hearing distance. He has to restrain himself to not look back and assure himself of that they're not following.

 

"Don't be such a _man_ ," Midna scoffs. "You're being paranoid. I suppose they're not the friendliest bunch to outsiders, they only value the fact that I'm nearly family. Since they couldn't at all fathom why I'd be on friendly terms with a business rival," she notes drily.

 

"I'm irresistible," Link says.

 

"Well, no, not really. But anyway, are we going to go say hi to Saria?"

 

Link nods. "Yeah, if you don't mind?"

 

"Not at all, it's been some time since I saw her."

 

Saria looks like she'd rather just throw herself around Link's neck, cling for dear life. He doesn't have to restrain himself from picking her up, not really. "Link!" she exclaims happily. Midna, who's closer to Saria in statue, lean in to peck her cheeks. "It's been too long," Saria sighs.

 

"Too long," Link parrots agreeably. "How've you been?"

 

She shrugs, hooking a strand of pale hair behind her ear and smiling. "Oh, around - work's been exhausting. Fun, mind you," She gestures around the saloon, "Heavy shifts around the clock, but fun. And, well, home's fine. I don't always have the time to go back though, you know?"

 

"It's been so long since I visited," Link says, scratching at the base of his collar, because embarrassment itches.

 

"Oh no, heavens no Link, don't be like that! We all miss you, of course. But we get on." She looks at him, frowning at him. But eventually, the smile slips back onto her her. "I think the whole village would appreciate you coming back to visit, sometime, but we're fine. Really."

 

They quickly slip into small talk, the weather is fine, and god no, he'd never do this with someone else. But Saria is a childhood friend who'd braved life outside of the forests for her family's sake, hopping on Link's figurative carriage to Castle Town, and there is not a person Link admires more for their determination. He'll honestly admit it, he can't think of anyone, most definitely not himself. The ease of the conversation fills him with a sense of relief, of familiar warmth, one that he's missed over the years. Lovely, lovely Saria.

 

"My goodness, Mido should be here now. It's been even longer since you two saw each other, Link." Saria smirks. And did he mention that Saria was lovely - he doesn't think so.

 

Link huffs. "Oh yes, we do so adore one another."

 

"He's grown up a lot, though," she winks, "But let's maybe take it one step at a time. It was so nice meeting you two here!" Link hugs her properly this time, as she steps up to him just as her pager sounds, buzzing at her hip. He even lingers a bit, smelling the pine and sandalwood in her hair, even as she pushes gently at his chest to distance herself. Link's not this sentimental, you don't have any evidence, really.

 

"She's darling," Midna says after her skipping step. "I can't believe you grew up with her, and none of her personality managed to rub off on you."

 

Link knocks their shoulders together. "Don't be rude," he says.

 

"Likewise," Midna says.

 

* * *

 

They're a reasonable crowd cramming into two taxis outside of the Palace by twelve thirty-ish. Or, well, Link can't be too sure his watch is right because he hasn't really checked it lately, but it seems a fine to make assumption, since most of them are decently tipsy, and now on their way to the Goron Mine for a Friday night out. People scatter over the sidewalks, and the Castle Town Café Bar terrace is crowded to maximum capacity, music and laugther and the chime of glass filtering through the air.

 

During dinner and the small stand up comic session after that, which had been quite funny, actually, Midna had introduced him to several others around their table. They're ten, Midna and Link included, though he doesn't actually know the six who crammed into the taxi going before them by the face. Not really by name either. But they'd been introduced. At some point. But he doesn't know them.

 

"Please, you'll have forgotten most of them by morning anyway, so what's the point?" Midna giggles, one arm around the slim neck of Beth. Beth is an old friend, bona fide super model who recently dons adverts left and right as the new face of Majora, Hyrule's arguably largest high fashion brand. Link deftly ignores the jab, and looks to Talo, the only other male in the car, for support. All he gets is a cool eyebrow, which, really, why are people so against him tonight?

 

He nurses a glass of champagne which, upon further consideration, he isn't quite sure how he managed to snag with him without being discovered, but there it is in the clutch of his palm, and at least _that_ is being a decent companion.

 

The Goron Mine isn't far, being a centre piece in Castle Town Square, and he's not sure why they're even cabbing there. Neon bright color lights blaze as they are dropped off outside, and there is a serpent of a queue already thickening up. The club has a rich history, but has been populated by passing trends and crowds, and has such been renovated and outfitted to conform to the constant 'in' of Hyrule's capital on the recent. It remains the same on the outside, but in three stories, it's constantly evolving.

 

The music is thick and slow, hypnotizing and unfamiliar to him as they go inside, Midna leading the way up front in 5" heels. Link discards his champagne glass at the closest wooden surface he encounters through the trickle of corridor, following the others worming through the crowd that slugs along to the beat, never a glimpse of room to breathe in.

 

The lights are magenta and blue, still warm on his shoulders and in his face. Sweat is already slicking up his neck when Midna stretches a hand above her to indicate that they're there. Or they might have arrived at the bar, both are considered successes right now, so he doesn't really care about which is up and which is down.

 

Midna waves him down at a large, low table in the far corner of the room, peppered already with glasses, an ashtray, and people with faces he doesn't recognize. He shakes hands with all of them, before sitting down next to Midna, crowding a corner of the velvet sofa they've taken up. She says something to him, seeming adamant, but he doesn't hear her, shrugging helplessly to indicate as much. She thins her lips.

 

"I said," she mimes slowly, "you just missed him!"

 

"Who?" Link says.

 

"The bouncer, you know, the one from the Palace who I wanted you to meet? He's getting drinks!"

 

Link can't recall his face, at all. Strange, he's quite good at faces, usually, and Midna had stopped to talk to him before they went in. He tries to visualize the scene, but not really no, nothing comes forth. He shrugs, but amicably, going along with it. "Alright!" he shouts, "Sounds great!"

 

There's a jab in his shoulder blade. Link swats over his shoulder at Midna, but he realizes, a tad too late to be graceful about it, that it is because he'd disconnected from reality, and that he was supposed to extend the hand currently over his shoulder, forward. He stumbles up, awkwardly handling what turns out to be another man's palm, callous and warm, clingy with the slight residue of alcohol.

 

"Link, it's a pleasure!" he says, mindlessly, eyes at the knuckles of the hand he still hasn't stopped shaking. It's okay, he just took it, or wait, what?

 

"Sheik," the owner of the hand says, "The pleasure is all mine!"

 

And no really, Link insists, it's his, as he looks up. Sheik, or The Owner Of The Hand, whose fingers are still wrapped around Link's despite that he isn't the one shaking them like a moron any longer, is slate haired and has bright eyes, and cheekbones that jaggedly, devastatingly cuts his cheeks slanting. He also has really, really white teeth, which glimmer for a second in a slip of a smile when Link releases his hand. Maybe he should have kept shaking it?

 

Link plucks Midna's hand of a Goron & Tonic when Sheik apologizes for being long, and starts handing out drinks, thereby leaning over the table with practiced ease. When Link thinks again,  _practiced ease_ might really be _sobriety_ , but who's he to judge?

 

Midna flicks the air beside his ear for the drink, and takes it back. "I'll take that," she says next to his ear, "You're welcome."

 

"I want to remember this?" Link doesn't know, he hasn't exactly been the picture of grace and manners so far.

 

Midna wordlessly says "yes, you really do,", doing that thing with her eyes that also his sister sometimes does, and scoots over. Link does the same, and Sheik sits down, out of drinks and suddenly close, black turtleneck clinging to his waist, his shoulders, seldom eyes reflected in dozens of colors in the neon spots. Link won't lie, not even to himself, he genuinely would not mind going back to his flat, with a plus one, right about now.

 

"Did you wear a hat?" Link asks suddenly. And, oh, dear, why does he?

 

Sheik looks momentarily taken aback, but nods, smiling as if, yes, he gets it. "Yes, the hair can sometimes be a bit of a - giveaway, if you'd like," he says. "Not many of mine left."

 

Link nods. Because, of course, what other way to strike up a conversation you can't maintain, than with one of the few remaining members of the Sheikah? He'll have to remember to congratulate himself in the morning. Sheik doesn't seem to take to it the wrong way, but maintains a polite (or, at the very least, Link thinks so) smile, and indulges in a beer. The music changes. Link smooths his palms on his pants. Sheik finishes half his beer. Link doesn't talk. Because that seems to be how he should swing it tonight. With Gerudo, and, you know, handsome men, and anyone.

 

He's so caught up in himself that when Sheik stands, he barely notices it. Right up until the moment where he places a palm on Link's shoulder, large and warm and encompassing. "Would you say no to dancing?"

 

Well -  when he decides to startle out of his surprise, semi-inebriated mind catching up to the fact that, yes, you shouldn't be talking, but you should very much be agreeing, then yes. Link doesn't look a gift horse in the mouth, usually, and he won't this time either. Even if it does involve dancing.

 

* * *

 


End file.
